More Than Words: I Trust You
by mercurial2010
Summary: Stendan "vanilla" M. Set in "May", Brendan's been found innocent and Stendan are closer than ever.


**A/N:**

Thank you so much to all my reviewers, this will be it for a while (I've been called away for 2 weeks – the next 2 weeks :O) I may be back with a couple more two-shots when I'm home. I really appreciate you all, thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, favourites and follows you all make me smile :D I hope the next few weeks are bareable for you all - see you on the other side :)

Please leave some words :) Especially let me know if you reckon this needs another chapter (see below ;))

**About this fic:**

Is gonna feel very different from the rest of the 'More Than Words' series, at the moment there's no kink, although it's still very much M. I've been struggling to add another chapter, I'm not sure whether that's because it wouldn't go, or because my plot bunnies are running thin, tell me what you think and I may try to add another chapter.

This is set in "May", post Kevin's trial where Brendan's been found innocent, and Stendan are closer than ever.

**Warning:**

Mentioning's of 'vanilla' sex.

Angst.

Here's for the show:

*****S&B******

"Aah, Bren!"

We weren't going to do this tonight. We're both knackered after long hard weeks at work and it's unreasonably hot for this time of year. One of those freak days in May when the temperatures been high 20's all day. Even with the all the windows open his house is like a sauna. There was some suggestion that we might hit the Dog but we didn't want the company, opting for the comfort of home.

We only had one brief thing that could be defined as an argument and surprisingly there was just one time he sulked, in that insanely-kissable way that I like to inspire in him. It was all over a list – he'd been watching Friends and he wanted us to create "lists". Apparently a condition of commitment is having a list of people you're allowed to be unfaithful with – the irony is horrendous, especially after recent events. But it was the first time we had joked about sex since it all went on, so I indulged him. He listed five actors and that Mark Savage - no comment necessary! I can't say my brain works like that, so I struggled. Eventually, I named Douglas, purposefully to tease him – he didn't find it particularly funny to say the least. He started to threaten the severe duress that I wouldn't even be having sex with my lover, let alone anyone else, until I had named at least one person. So I said Ryan Reynaulds because, honestly, he's the only person I remember having a physical attraction to for months who wasn't Steven. I don't think I was even properly attracted to that Paul bloke in Dublin only the parts of him that reminded me of Steven – his sass, for example.

"Right, Ryan Reynaulds, yeah I get that, see wasn't so hard was it?" Steven stated arms crossed - still pissed.

"A threesome with him wouldn't be too bad, I guess. It'd have to be a threesome mind."

"Nuh, he's yours, right he's your only so-"

"I wouldn't have sex without you Steven - you could enter the international championships for sulking, I would never hear the end of it!"

"Whatever!"

"Plus," and I came really close, breathed deep in his ear. "I already have an "only", don't I? And he's not some words-worth Hollywood actor."

He didn't meet my gaze, but I watched that smile pull his lips.

"I wouldn't ever have sex without you."

He gave me that look to say I was being adorably soppy, I kissed it right off his face. Tongue, teeth and tash promising him I was being anything but. We prolonged the kiss, pulled away both panting, but that was the only time we strayed near our infinite passion. We got through a whole night with barely any touching, I was pretty impressed.

But when I climbed into bed next to my Steven wearing nothing but his boxers, how am I supposed to resist him? His body was all relaxed and curled, and he whimpered as I pressed a hand between his thighs. I knew he wanted this as much as me.

So now he's looking up at me all eyelash heavy and pupils dilated and nostrils flared. And he's panting and breathing my name like he's never been so alive, when all I'm doing is stroking my hand over the soft jut of his abs.

I'm wearing his smile, I know because he keeps doing that thing he does when I look happy - his thumb brushing over my cheek. And I am happy, OK! I'm happy.

Me and Steven on a quiet night in our bedroom - this is what life is about. Not the high-adrenaline drug-smuggling revenge-seeking buzzy darkness, but this. This – the total stillness. The soul-defining completion as I need nothing but what I have right in front of me. And that light in my boy's eyes telling me he feels exactly the same. This is _it_.

I wouldn't say any of this out loud of course.

I press my lips into his neck, tasting the summer salt.

"I love you," I didn't even mean to whisper it.

He giggles, shucking a little away from me, as his hands wrap my hair.

"Did you just tell me you love me?" He whispers, laughter bubbling from his lips. "It's OK, I won't tell anybody!" He beams, and I reach down to taste his smile.

"Cept maybe Cheryl she could do with a laugh! Right, Brendan Brady," he cups my face with his hands, this deadly serious expression on his face. "You're not going soft on me are you?!"

I take his hand, needing to turn that laughter into a moan, and I lead him to the evidence of our long touches. His eyes widen as they always do when he feels my passion for him, like he thinks it's possible for my body not to respond to his.

"I wouldn't say that, Steven," I whisper predatorily, moving his hand to cup around my cock.

I press just my mouth to his as he reaches up for me. We turn it into a long embrace, all tongues and lips and sighs. Skin too hot to touch this is just the play of our mouths, and his hand on my cock.

His opening thighs welcome me between him and all the time he's moulding my cock, massaging softly and slowly until he's fracturing my mind.

Fuck I love kissing him like this, like he's mine, like if I wanted I could do this forever.

He presses against my shoulder and I let him turn me around, so I'm on my back cushioned in our bed. His hot pink tongue maps over his drying lips and then he takes that bottom lip between his teeth. I know these as the signs that he's getting high off us, I've memorised them all.

His hand leaves my cock and I help him to peel away my boxers.

I have never been like this with anyone else; he takes my usual trademarks and entombs them in adoration. I have no desire to heighten the mood when he can make me hard with just a look. I don't want to use my body to claim his, when I know we share each other like no-one else will. I don't want to fight, when I love him like I do.

His gaze maps over me like my body has only ever been good and pure and _his_. And I know like this I belong to him. In this soft slow trail of our sex my being is dedicated, committed.

I can spend long hours now perfectly relaxed into the sensations of us, and I absorb each moment he gives me, stretching it out until there's nothing we can do but come together. It will always be like this. He is my greatest achievement and my biggest prize.

There's silence here, just the sound of our hearts beating together. And there's little light but the fire in his eyes, the one I want to make burn for eternity. And silently, from my heart to his, I whisper a promise of forever.

He presses a kiss to my neck and his tongue maps over my shoulder bone. He reaches up, tugs at my ear with his teeth and my breath disappears from me in a wisp. He knows every sweet spot, knows exactly where and when and how much. And he gives me it all, mapping my body like it's his playground.

I slide my hand up and over his perfect, smooth, taut arse. And I feel his smile grow against my abs.

He looks at me with playful blue eyes, his hand taking mine. He doesn't need to speak to tell me he just wants to take this, to kiss my body as it lays open for him. I know he wants to possess me without me touching back – it's his turn he's telling me silently.

I cock my arms above my head, resting my hands on the pillow, and raise an eyebrow at him – enjoy, I say with my grin's quirk.

There is no need for words when we know each other so completely.

He runs his hands up the inside of my thighs, gently so it's just a whisper of a touch, and I bend my knees so he can sit between me the way he wants.

He bites at the sensitive nub of my nipple and I feel my groin buck for friction. But his hands push against my hips and his smile spreads as slow as I know his touches are going to come.

His sweet wicked mouth and his talented hands work every inch of my body. He leaves me panting and sweating and desperate. His tongue leaves a twirl on my ball as he pulls back, drinks in my cock with his gaze. There's only one other part of me that hasn't felt him. I've never been so licentious, so submissive. My every muscle is tensed in its need for power, but I want to bask in that look in his eye. I want him to bask in me.

He spends what feels like eternity just looking at me, teasing me with unspoken promises. Then his gaze reaches for mine and I feel myself grow impossibly harder just by the look on his face like he could come right now.

His finger runs up the vein on the underside of my cock.

"Please, Steven."

He beams at me, and I realise that's the first time I've begged him, the only time I've ever begged anyone. But he doesn't make me feel week, or humiliate me. He doesn't ask me to repeat it. He just takes this moment, his moment. His eyes drinking me in like I'm amazing, like he can't believe I'm here with him.

His tongue follows the same path and I let my whimper fall loud and clear, awarded by that beautiful smile on his face. His happiness my prize. And then his mouth forms around my cock, slowly, showing me how much he knows me. And in the fissure he creates all there is is a thought I've had once before.

I want him to know me.

Back then it scared me so much I couldn't take it anymore - I thrust him onto his front, spread his legs and finger fucked him hard until he was moaning with his need to be claimed by me. But now it's different, now it feels OK, like it might be alright, good even. Like we could make this work. And I know if I don't do it now I never will. I need to be his and no-one elses.

But I have no idea how to tell him. I don't think my lips would permit the words if I formed them. So I guess he'll just have to work it out.

I grab the condom from our drawer and stroke a hand through his hair to pull him up to me. I pass him the foil and he smiles widely as he opens it. He spreads it out on the palm of his hand and then starts to take it in between his teeth.

"What are you doing?"

"I thought you wanted me to use my mouth."

I laugh – now isn't that a thought! What a clever boy he'd be.

"You proper liked it last time," he complains as his eyes form a sulk.

"I don't want it on me."

He sighs, sitting away from me. God that's not the expression I wanted on his face, I don't think I could take rejection, not about this.

"Right, I knew this was going to come up - Look I'm not saying I don't want to, it's just look me and Doug, you know when we were about to…y'know-"

No, I don't know.

What the fuck has that Yank got to do with anything? I feel my cock hide back into my body.

"-We went for tests before we did it, and right it doesn't hurt as much as people make out. I mean I'll go with you right, if you want, obviously. You know there's only been you since though, but… it's just best innit?"

He looks worried, really nervous and my thumb soothes the furrow in his brow

"Steven, what are you talking about?!"

"I think we should use it, right, just until we know we don't need to."

He looks at me like he's apologetic, and understanding waves over me, he thinks I'm saying I don't want to use protection.

"I mean it'll be great, right, fucking incredible – let's just be safe yeah?"

Fuck, he thinks we should go bareback! The idea almost splinters my mind, the thought of that hot arse welcoming just me. I cough away the lust – not now.

"I'm not saying I don't want the condom!"

He looks at the foil like it's turned into a rubbix cube in his hand.

"I'm saying I don't want it on _me_."

"Oh." He says, his surprise showing in his eyes as he finally understands.

After the surprise, he looks scared and my mind rushes to catch up with him again. He asked me once, right at the start of this, before I could let myself know I loved blokes let alone think about that. I remember, and I remember exactly how I told him to never ask me again. The memory shivers through me with doubts and worthlessness, but I see the love in his eyes and I know he trusts me more than I trust myself.

I reach up, taking his cock in my hand. I explore the contours and gradients of it, the blood pumping thick and vast through it. His cock is beautiful, and I focus purely on the idea of it inside me. The way his eyes would look, the tremble in those lips, the beat of his heart. The power I would trust him with.

"Brendan-" He's not quite high yet, I guess this is new for both of us.

I push him back down into the covers, leaning over him, pumping him.

"Tell me that doesn't make ye hot," I breathe; my voice low and dripping with Irish in the way I know he loves.

"Brendan-" he's nervous, I design my words to relax him.

"Tell me ye don't get high when ye think 'bout it, what'll look like, what'll feel like to fuck me."

"Brendan. Mitzeee told me."

Eight.

"What?"

"Mitzeee, she told me."

Sixteen, twenty-four, thirty-two.

My entire body freezes.

All I can feel is the adrenaline rushing to my heart.

And suddenly this room becomes like all those others, the silence and the stillness vanish like they were fake mockery and there's the dull, rushing, daze-inducing darkness.

Fourty, fourty-eight,fifty-six.

He sits up but I barely feel the comfort of his hand on mine.

Sixty-four, seventy-two, eighty.

"I'm sorry-"

"When?" I ask uselessly.

"During the trial, she phoned, we didn't really talk about it or anything, she didn't mean to tell me, she thought you had. And she was just trying to get me to give you another chance, and-"

"That's why you believed me?"

Eighty-eight.

"No!" His eyes are insistent; his hands cup my face trying to pull me back to him.

"I love you! I always knew you wouldn't have done that. But God, Brendan - I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," there comes the fake platitudes the weak commiserations and I'm alone again in that room with the window blocked, and I'm screaming but he can't hear me. He's known all this time. All those times when I felt close to his heart were fake - I didn't really know him at all. He knew and didn't say anything.

He knew.

He knew, like _she_ knew.

Ninety-six.

I feel violence bite at my heels and I know I have to leave before it takes me, I'm turning into that monster I'm scared of.

I stand up slowly, like my limbs are full of led and walk out of the room. He calls me back but I can't take this. And slowly the room strips itself of everything we were, this home fades and I'm not the man I was trying to be for Steven, the man who was worthy of comfort and love. The man who could finally trust with everything. I'm that boy, that scared, useless boy. And I can barely hear my love's call.

Eight, sixteen, twenty-four, thirty-two, fourty, fourty-eight, fifty-six, sixty-four, seventy-two, eighty, eighty-eight, ninety-six.

He finds me in the kitchen, failing weakly to open the bottle of scotch. There's a broken drinking flute by my left hand, I'm not quite sure how it got there. Concern shines in his eyes and he takes my hand, breathing profanities that I can barely hear. He places kitchen roll on my palm and cleans the blood away. The dark red drinks through the white like it's spreading over us. He's saying something about how he didn't want me to find out like that, how he wanted to tell me he knew before but he didn't know how, how he's sorry, really truly sorry. But I barely hear him, it feels like I've been locked away in deafening darkness, alone. A heavy thundery storm has started up outside – I'm abandoned in it and I can't navigate home.

Eight, sixteen, twenty-four, thirty-two, fourty, fourty-eight, fifty-six, sixty-four, seventy-two, eighty, eighty-eight, ninety-six.

The bleeding stops with the squeeze of his fingers. And he presses his kiss to my knuckles.

"I love you," he breathes honestly, and I hear that.

He brings a glass down from the cupboard, getting ice, pouring Scotch. The shine of the amber liquid, the smell and the burn of it in my lungs almost brings me home, back to him. He stands still as I take the shot and waits to pour me another.

Rain battles against the open window, and I feel it drench against my naked skin. I turn my face into rain, wanting it to wash this away. He starts to close it.

"Don't," I ask, and he nods standing back.

He pours me another scotch, and then he moves quietly to stand behind me. He presses his entire body up against me, so I feel his thighs next to mine, and his heart thrumming into my back and his breath on my neck. He doesn't speak, just stands there. And when the boy I am starts to shake he wraps his arms around me, one over my shoulders, the other around my rib, crossing over my heart - protecting me. I feel a small part of me, a part I buried away a long time ago, breathe. He's stronger than he looks my man.

I lean back into him. I trust in his strength. I trust him to look after me.

We stand in silence.

The only sound is the occasional pour of scotch against ice as he pours me another, and another. Six, seven, eight. He hates it when I drink this much I know, but at this moment I know he'd do anything for me. And for a reason I can't quite defend that doesn't scare me.

He doesn't offer me false platitudes or empty words of comfort. He just holds me, pours me more scotch and his arms never leave me. He lends me his strength, and I know he is my only way out. I know I trust him enough to let him face down my demons. He's not the strongest man I've ever known, or the best fighter, he's nowhere near the most powerful. He's a slight, small town, scally, but he has a braveness in him that makes him more beautiful than anyone I've ever met. There's an honest lightness in him that glows from his gaze and shines right into me whenever I'm around him. And I know there's never been anyone like him. Funny what that word, trust, can do isn't it?

In the tenth scotch I start to come back to him, to now. I can smell his scent from my skin and I push my head into his arm, breathing him in, garlic, lemons, fresh warm skin. I trail my tongue against the underside of his wrist, tasting him, and he's exactly as he was.

"Steven," I breathe his name, needing nothing but that.

I feel his kiss against my neck and I'm his again.

I turn around in his embrace and pull him to me. He looks at me, not with sympathy but honesty. That gaze like he knows me; like he can see straight through all the walls and into the dark and he still accepts me. And under his gaze I feel myself pull back together – the boy, the monster, the man, learn to sit side by side and I become me again. No-one has known me like Steven. He doesn't try to close any part of me off, he doesn't deny or defend, he doesn't mask my imperfections, he just knows me.

He loves me.

If you've grown up in a world where everything's right and good and you're right and good in it, you can't know what it's like to look at the person who truly loves you.

I press my mouth to his, and he kisses me, just lightly, once, twice, three times. And then he hugs me, and there's never been a hug that's felt like that. Like pure comfort.

When he pulls away there's the smile I remember in his eyes.

"Wanna watch that Reynolds bloke?" He asks.


End file.
